


Telling the Truth

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [22]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Art, Artists, Historical, London, M/M, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford says more than he wants to his model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Picture Inspiration challenge in the summer 2014 Weiss vs Saiyuki battle.

"You could come up with some pictures in advance, it'd save time," Schuldig says. "Just dash a few off."

"Hmm?" I say, concentrating on my pigments. "What pictures?"

"You know, the _private_ ones."

I give him one of his own sarcastic looks. "I thought you were of the opinion I should take some pride in my work? "Dashing a few off" sounds rather careless to me. Stop wriggling around."

"This is a bloody uncomfortable pose," he mutters, but curls himself gracefully around the curtain rod standing in for a spear once more. " _Are_ you proud of those paintings, Crawford?"

I make a non-committal noise – I _am_ proud of the most recent, of the way it captures something of Schuldig's wildness and wicked humour, and is not just a piece of smut. It's a long way from the first such work I did, which seems to me now to depict not an erotic scene at all, but an awkwardly posed tableau of prudish embarrassment. I was lucky, I think with mean satisfaction, that the buyer had little artistic sense and more money than he knew how to handle.

"How is your friend Williamson?" I ask.

"Why? Do you want him to buy your services again?" Schuldig says with a smirk. "There's a word for that, Crawford."

"Don't be vulgar. And stop moving."

"I'm the last to fucking judge. I want a break, come on, let's have something to eat."

I sigh as I put my brush down, and watch Schuldig stretch. He catches up my bathrobe and wraps it round himself for warmth before strolling into the other room to make sandwiches. I follow, and find a half-empty sketchbook on the table. I can usually get a laugh from Schuldig by doing some quick, humorous drawings of him preparing food at times like this – the robe is far too long for him and reaches almost to his ankles. With the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and the hem nearly on the floor he looks ridiculous and doesn't care a whit in a way I could never manage. I draw quickly as he moves quickly around, neatly cutting bread into thin, even slices, chopping the hardboiled eggs he insisted I cook earlier, assembling cheese and meat on a plate.

"You'll make someone a nice little wife," I say.

"That's me, your perfect Hausfrau," he sniggers, then snaps his mouth shut, like he's said too much. He looks at me sidelong, as if he is gauging my mood, trying to see if he has irritated me. As he normally lives to cause irritation, I am a little surprised by such circumspection.

I push the sketchbook across the table to make him smile again at the sight of himself behind an implausibly towering stack of sandwiches. He crooks a little grin at it.

"I didn't realize you were that hungry."

"You make me hungry," I say carelessly, and hear the words only after they are hanging there in the room like they are a third person. Schuldig's eyes have gone wide - he leans forward on the table about to speak; I am suddenly very afraid of what he will say. "You make such very good sandwiches, after all," I say, quite weakly.

"Ah. Of course," he says, and favours me with one of his most evil smiles. "You're sitting there so pale, so anemic, just wasting away, longing for me to – feed you up." He puts some sandwiches on a plate and comes round to stand beside me, sliding them in front of me. "What am I going to do with you?" he says, leaning back against the table and putting a hand on my cheek in a way that means I really can't eat my lunch.

Several answers occur to me, none of which I feel I can say. He strokes his thumb along my cheekbone, looking at me as if I am a puzzle to be solved. The robe has fallen slightly open, rendering him somehow more naked than when he poses completely stripped. His skin is smooth and unmarked, tanned a light golden colour where the sun has touched it. I imagine putting my hands on him, running them down to the small of his back and pulling him to me. I have never wanted anything so much. I close my eyes, trying to breathe. I do not know what is wrong with me. Schuldig pats my cheek, as if he is patting a confused dog.

"Eat your sandwiches," he says, making it sound like a stay of execution.

I open my eyes to see him wander away to make us his preferred sweet coffee. Obediently I begin to eat my lunch, though I don't taste a single mouthful.

I have no idea what to do.


End file.
